This blog is (mostly) a near-verbatim transcription of my writing journal. Margins are the same as the journal. These are exercises, not finished products. Other types of writings will most likely emerge at some point.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Journal 30 - Free Willin' Cells

Was that the wind light in the remnants ofthe bye-bye storm or the sound of the sheetsand the covers as she shifted positions in thebig bed – it’s all blurry to me as I stumble intothe bathroom, tripping over toddler stools inthe dark – life is what you make of it my friend.(Silverado) The wind still nestles and nustles andrubs elbows with the leaves in the spring trees –brief cycles of memories of all the times the windin the trees meant something. Fill in the sordidand topaz blanks of your own throat deterioratinglives. It has been said (& quoted) that “you’ve beendying since the day you were born.” It has acertain ring to it. When is that real turning/tipping point when the cells in your body stoppredominately growing but predominately witheraway, losing their moisture and drying up like along mocked toyed-with snail, homeless in itsthirsty quest for a silver lining that is real andmeaningful. I sometimes (e.g., now) wonder if mylife is but a cardboard box of cheap wine –popular among the sweet unrefined undisciplinedmediocre yet beautiful teary indisposable and won-derfully unintellectual keepers of the light thatactually reflects a soul peaking out of its leatheryshell like an ancient bird in the Galapagos Islds.The evolution of a nose – who knew it wouldmean so much? Our cells are free if we are free –but I repeat myself. they may be free butapparently doesn’t mean bright. A pensieve wouldbe cool to have. Or a direction – velocity isa bit overrated when it comes to human tohuman interaction, or interface as the coldscientific philosopher would have it. I swear attimes the wind sounds like some giant, or asupernatural being, is breathing in through thebig gap in her front teeth in a gasping – slowlugubrious gasping –furtive harbinger of not verydelightful phantasies to come – nightmares inthe chimes and the trees and the bruising of knees.